Incredible Apathy
by Demyrie
Summary: Razor muses about his lessthan glamorous relationship with the Crimelord Mizo, all the fetid convenience that placed him in his current world and, more importantly, how to fittingly end that pact. With a bang, perhaps? MizoxRazor, slash.


**A/N:** HALLO EVERYONE! So happy to be here, indeed, so happy to be here. Demz has returned for a visit, BRINGING PRESENTS AND EXCUSES GALORE!

Here's the cinch.

Rule number one. I adore Razor with a passion that denies my existence. It is my fangirly-professional opinion that the little flouncing (German?) fruitcake needs more ficcage.

Rule number two. Obsessive, hateful Mizo intrigues me. His possible relationship with Razor intrigues me doubly so.

Rule number three. I am in love with expanding the Jak universe. And that's all I need, excuse-wise.

-.-.-

Gameverse: Jak X, anytime really.

Spoilers: **I WARN YOU, ABSOLUTE SPOILERS FOR JAK X.**

Pairing: MizoxRazor

Rating: M for language and VERY STRONG I'M WARNING YOU DOUBLY SO (but very brief) sexual content.

Beta: Thank you loads, Goosie! Although I did keep some fragments, regardless of protest… I apologize.

I ADORE YOU ALL. Read and enjoy!

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Incredible Apathy

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Ah. Kras.

It is an odd place, brimming with atmosphere. The black air here seems to throb with green and purple- rank, acidic bleedings from signs and streetlights. Nightly, the life-blood of the city is slashed from dark, winding wrists. Alleys invite drug peddlers in, cloaking them in damp shadows. People wander. The neon sputters, coughing seedily in its small glass vein.

It is nightmarish, really. An unnatural light, and one I am unduly fascinated with.

Ah, but I overstep myself. Such artistic language I partake of, hm? One can tell I have mused upon this oddity before. On risk of exaggerating my pleasant traits, I actually find myself to be quite… philosophic, oftentimes. But such moods have their place.

I sat by the window, annoyingly nude within the crisp sheets piled about my legs. I sucked quietly on my cigarette, as though he had never forbid me to smoke in bed. The world outside was bright and cold, pouring into the pitch-black bedroom by a glossy oblong faucet. It remained alive, despite the unholy hour of the morning.

I looked to my left. The white door shone dully, neatly shut and locked just as well. Fastidious.

The house wasn't a house at all.

Houses themselves, such an endearing term… it promotes images of family. A close-knit group- trust, ultimately.

If they ever existed within Kras, houses had long been swept away by a mechanized maze of black metal and sharp corners. This city had no humble woodwork beginnings, being made for precisely one thing. Business. There were places to live, however-- apartments, hovels; yes. Despite their diseased surroundings, the crafty, malicious people of Kras City lived on, cramped into dark nothings that never even delicately resembled a home.

It is always something small, utilitarian, impersonal and all-too easily abandoned- something, most importantly, devoid of trust. No healthy family can exist here; or so he has told me. That intense, damnable man.

He lay sprawled beside me. Though 'attractive' in kind terms, I did not favor looking at him overly much. He snored thickly, mouth ballooning. I flinched, sneering.

Really, he has several, vaguely irking traits that, once given ample time to ferment, become utterly repulsive. His face was the first and foremost attribute to sour in my eyes- the ironically noble hawk nose and blocky chin. He had the face of Hercules, should the myth spring from gold-soaked illustrations in children's books.

But gold turned to coal, in time. It wasn't long before his gallant, jaunty voice began to wring a prickling shudder from my chest, one which had much to do with disgust.

I shifted, uneasily. The bed had gone cold, stiff with old sweat.

In a city without trust, I knew it was some bare shaving of that same commodity that kept my provider's bed warm. Tainted, officious and opportune, true; but sleeping in such a fast-moving city when you have won grip on the _wheel_ itself, the central, puss-oozing hub of crime… one must have a lookout, for survivals sake. Nothing more.

No room for sentimentality.

I pulled deeper on my cigarette, sensing him next to me like a wet, heavy rag. Dead weight.

There is no need for us to be affectionate. Such a tactic does not present an advantage, so neither of us implements it. Truly, he would think it conniving if I suddenly became, in all my infamous, bristling cynicism, warm and adoring. I would sleep lightly for weeks should he attempt to touch my face.

We are an odd couple, but well enough off.

Yes- he trusted me, you could say. Although, I do have to chuckle at his interpretation of the word, as he trusted no one. He had faith in many- and the key lay in that those 'many' were an entirely disposable force. What he feared was permanence.

One might call him a rather skewed man, with equally skewed morals. Obsessed, by all means. And the single thing more needling than having to deal with his stringent, cockish streak was knowing precisely how he came by it.

He is not withholding. His past is known to all of us. His dear father, his fading mother, his shattered childhood, oh my. I simply _cannot_ imagine.

His story of the self-made man, you see, is every initiate's bedtime yarn for a year. All delivered with the tailored, somewhat infuriating rapport of a slaphappy monkey well-trained for the public eye. Idiot. Those 'shows' wormed their way into his character within months, and his regime found him the worse for it.

For many reasons, I would wish his mouth shut in a moment had I the power.

The man has nothing to fear, and in exceedingly dense souls gifted with good fortune and 'purpose', such a trait leads to talking. It is a two-step equation, which inevitably leads to flouting one's secrecy. To maintain secrecy, you must have trust.

Ah, 'boss'. Methinks the lord doth fraternize too much.

I slipped the pistol from underneath the mattress, cocking it quietly-- such a satisfying weight in my hands.

Trust and intelligence**_--_** it seems Mizo is a tad short on both points in the last lap.

I slipped from bed, scooping my robe from the floor and pulling it over my shoulders. A quick flick of my wrists secured the waist strap. The gun hung from my hand, carefully clamped between my thumb and palm.

I usually prefer cutlery, true. But somehow, the rather romantic idea of driving my blade into his fat windpipe as he slept… lost its appeal quite quickly. In so many horror films, no one truly understands the grisly, laborious rending of cartilage. The split of the Adams apple, the fresh gush of blood…

…How halting, how painful.

The up-ended knife, the stiff fingers. The manner in which it jerks at the tendons of your wrists, unexpectedly tearing forward with a wet crack then sticking like moist plastic. The body seeming an annoying, inhuman appendage, wiggling around. Most of all, your fully aware victim. The flapping mouth, the oily red veins in their wide eyes.

And so much work-- so very much work.

Somehow, the idea of serving him such a fate while having to endure it myself… I have very thin morals, you understand, and thinner alliances. But I also have tact, and some measure of propriety. The very idea of flaying him open in his own bed in such an unjust manner… he deserves some measure of respect for all that he has provided for me. I wish him a clean, quick death.

I simply pity the sheets. I picked them out myself, and now they were to be his funeral shroud.

I looked the gun over, almost pensively. He gave another great, shuddering snore to the left of me, and the fickle nausea vanished. His death would be no tragedy.

Still, I hesitated.

Many things have led to this, really. Do not think me a man lusting for blood. This is a… culmination, and an advantageous move for myself. Nothing more.

In eliminating the last member of the Mizo crime family… who else have his men to follow besides myself? I would be placed firmly in the seat of power until I chose a favorite, reaping the benefits before handing the business to my successor. I have no wish to be trapped within this glowing, screeching cage. An exit strategy is a necessity, for I see far more than a thriving capital of racing monopoly in the dark streets. My sight goes beyond my own nose, you see.

The city is dying.

Or rather, she never truly breathed life, and was instead born in a state of decay- fated only to coast downwards. Mustering all the cash flow she can swallow, bolstering her failing neon arteries. Electricity. Business. Human flow. Any substitute for life, anything fit to drain.

For all the brutal efforts taken, still the fetid mass remains; unmoving, carefully decomposing.

Though it would require a madman to undertake it, there are some here that keep Kras breathing through her slime-caked gutters. Mizo, for example, the literal man behind the curtain in our fair city.

He, however, takes no pride.

The only emotion is a manic, bitter pleasure. Hatefully keeping the city alive in its death throes, force-feeding her potent business, as if convinced she can feel pain. Fully determined to prolong her suffering. He believes it to blame for his life, I suppose.

Having been born elsewhere… my lack of loyalty is quite appalling. I am fond of this brightly lit ghetto, but such fondness of other cities has never before halted any Judas-like actions on my part. I'm afraid I simply don't care enough to question my alliances.

They exist as they are, momentary but solid, and if a more advantageous opportunity arises, I will move on. Some may call me fickle, but I call it being… open-minded.

The situation is much akin to ours, truly. Mizo and myself- although I don't believe he's aware of my apathy. 'We' started out as a business arrangement. It has stayed much the same, some… pact of convenience with added leverage for myself as well. Amusing the cunning man at night presented new advantages quickly enough, but not too quickly.

He was not desperate for a bond or partner as many men are, and thus was still a force to be reckoned with. I could not play entirely on his want of companionship, for he had none- my few efforts, lazy at best, were headed off by conniving indifference. He tested me, I tested him. We found the other to our general liking.

I was to be anything but an obsequious lapdog, and he anything but the pliant provider.

Both intelligent, both capable… Within weeks I rolled from his bed and into the high-backed chair directly to the right of him when our little group met. Crime flourished, our racing circle grew and thinned out competition. We thrived. I was openly favored, prized, but still in the manner which told me it was solely for the purpose of prolonging the city's pain. A tool, but did I worry? Pht. Not in the least.

The man has a personal vendetta against Kras. I leave him to it.

That vendetta will kill him one day. I leave him to that as well.

Oh yes, one may call me heartless, but I do have some feelings for him- a little something beyond disgust, I profess. I require him to live comfortably. I do not favor strange settings and unknown competition, and he has taken me away from all that. Retirement in his controlled little world is the stuff of dreams.

My first night in the city was rather ill at ease, though I destroyed my opponents in the featured race. An invigorating run, it was- the track was foreign and sudden, devoid of monotony to blur the experience. But standing afterwards at the Bloody Hook, I was purposefully alienated for my trespasses on the track. They- the congregation, the nameless opposition- eyed me mutinously from their tables, conversation of grunts low and forced. I stood aside, nonplussed.

I kept no record of whom I destroyed; they were all just targets. I am not personally vindictive, save for when contesting against a worthy opponent. Then I become a tad dangerous, I admit.

The moment I was considering retiring to my room for the night, bored of all their ill feelings and glares, the door burst open. The fish darted from the glossy glass to stir anxiously amongst their flapping treasure boxes, and the room was instantly transformed.

You could romantically say that, in that moment, my life changed forever.

The intruder brought several stage-lights with him, and an instant rush of noise. Ill-concealed displeasure radiated from the bar patrons, some wincing away from the light. The grim mood in the air condensed, and the new blonde man, vaguely familiar, loped through it all as though distinctly oblivious.

He looked far too flamboyant, gleaming and stupid for such a dark atmosphere. And lord, his hair was terrible… with a magenta suit? Tch.

I watched him approach. He had his bulky _pink_ back to me, walking backwards and gesturing animatedly to what seemed to be a camera. Talking loudly--far too loudly. Within moments I sympathized with the repulsion of what must be a well-known annoyance in this city. The media.

"-And what a lap it was, race fans! Three racers down, the rest eating his dust! Crossed the finish with thirty seconds to spare, like a bat outta- well lookie here!" He whirled towards me, feigning surprise and flipping out a wide hand, narrowly missing cuffing me across the chin. I bristled instantly, one brow cocked. "Looks like we've found our man, ladies and gentlemen- you there!"

He was a purely one-man show.

He strode in beside me, looping a thick arm around my shoulders and rattling them about. I looked around dubiously, finding many a murderous eye on me, but Mizo deftly dragged my attention back with that tenacious charm he has- and I use the term 'charm' lightly.

"You must be pretty fuss'n feathers proud of yourself, stranger! First run in a big, scary new track and you whip 'em all without batting an eye! No questions, no answers, just shootin' ladies and gents! This dark horse left our old boys stuff to nurse for days!"

He grinned and held it for a moment- waiting for his teeth to set in gold, I supposed- then whipped the microphone under my nose, crowding me in as the camera shifted. I could smell the breath in his wide mouth, a distinctly clean peppermint.

"Amazing firing out there, whiz kid- say, what's your name?"

An alienating experience, all of the other racer's dull eyes pinned on us as we performed for a whirring little machine. 'Blitz' was almost unsightly with how vivaciously he felt his role. I was disgusted with him from the beginning- little did I know that repulsion had yet to recur with a vengeance.

Ignorant of our future together, I simply smiled for the camera.

"Razer." I said crisply, looking lazily into the bulbous little lens. It seemed simultaneously inquisitive yet dull, peering back at me with my own reflection.

"Oou, sharp!" He gave a meaty wink. I rolled my eyes as he threw himself back to the camera for another round of verbal knockouts. "Well that sounds like a name we'll be hearing again soon enough! At least we know one thing- for all those brutal moves out there, you sure aren't green at this! You know when to crack down and stop pulling the punches- and anyone out there can tell you that's one thing I love in a rising star!"

Oh yes, he was playing it up.

But something peculiar happened as he stepped back to my side. There came a strong hand on my back, distracting my thin smile from the camera and pressing down, purposefully commanding. I turned my head, instinctively curious, and found myself gazing directly into the man's suddenly intense expression. There was a pause and a strong, somewhat manic expectation surfaced in his sharp eyes.

In the acidic, lemon yellow stage-lights, mouth close to mine, he abruptly became another person. Someone feral.

"I'll be watching you, stranger." He bared his teeth in something vaguely akin to a grin, then shoved me jovially away and continued chattering to the camera, landing his final line. I straightened, stiff and affronted, and gave the camera one last tense smile as it swung drunkenly into my face, wobbling there, before bobbing off after the mysterious host.

Like a light being clicked off and plunging the entire room into stillness, it stopped. 'It' being motion, light, and liveliness. Sound.

The show, apparently, was over. Exiting, Blitz flipped the mike over his shoulder, a dark smile on his handsome face.

I watched him, vaguely curious at the whole scene. He walked easily, with a powerful stride. His shoulders were wide, well built, camera clinging nearby like a whirring shoulder-bird begging a cracker.

He could have exited with no further comment--come, gone, some beggar of limelight past his prime, indubitably beneath my notice. But as he was nearly out the door, I saw his hand clench once at his side, experimentally. There was a knuckling, bulky power in the action, as with his strangely sharp eyes, and I knew immediately that this outrageous man was not all he seemed.

Imagine my surprise when, the moment he left, the whole room seemed to darken, turning sullen and cloistered again. Drinks began scraping and clinking, but only as if to cover something else. Hyper aware and disoriented, I could only straighten in warning as one group of men began to stir, peering down my nose at the motley assemble.

They were gutter-children, the lot of them.

After a moment more discussion, they rose from their seats as one, plodding over to me in suspicious, reptilian motions. The rest watched them like hawks, eyes sharp and mistrustful but oddly knowledgeable. 'Expectant' would be the word. It unnerved me.

The foremost stepped forward, closely butchered hair gleaming like spun, splintered orange sugar. One eye was blotted out in a spidery black tangle of fire. More tattoos. Brats are apparently born with them here.

"Shiv." He grinned colorlessly, baring a gap-toothed smile.

I eyed him, revealing nothing. His ears were hacked off at the middle, ugly and gnarled at the edges. He thrust out his hand. I reluctantly took it, which felt tastelessly rough even though my gloves, but before I could pull away, he squeezed quickly, noting my distaste. The rest chuckled darkly. 'Shiv' cocked his head, rough smile widening.

"Welcome to the crew."

I didn't quite make the connection when he said it. The simple fact that I was no longer my own… eluded me.

Little did I know that Mizo had gained so much power by that point that any racer he set his sights on, he acquired like toy china- a pet taken on parade for friends, another trophy for the cabinet. For any price, but most often none at all. I was claimed the instant I crossed the finish line.

I moved over to the window, looking out. The light of Kras streamed in, cold and impersonal, but still feverish. Cocked and re-cocked the gun several times, as though assuring myself the task and the sleeping target were still there.

But how easily I can remember my first, crucial moments with him. It's quite unlike me to be sentimental, but in this I had to pause.

Our introduction glorified on screen, I began sleeping with the man not long after. A race gone well, with me fully inserted within his ranks… a dinner invitation didn't seem inappropriate. As a slight thank you, mind you. A man must pay his dues.

His living quarters were pleasant. They exhibited a man not fully aware enough to mind his surroundings, but they did not trespass my basest tastes in any way.

Our dinner was interesting. It entailed another round of us testing the other, though it****never truly qualified as a seduction- for that requires lust. I do believe lust came afterwards, if there was any. It was mostly lukewarm convenience and the brutal want for a human body to fuck, at best.

We bantered, curt and impersonal. Neither giving the other anything more than necessary. His confidence, if anything, was magnificent. A far cry from that loud falsity he spews on screen. The sight of his huge hands clasped in the dim light, his broad, angling shoulders and sharp blue eyes moved me. Now I could see him as dangerous, and now I was interested.

Not enticed. Not in the least. Simply… intrigued.

Sex was inevitable, of course. But it also involved getting undressed, and that brought quite a few unpleasant surprises.

The tattoos cut through the smooth skin of his scalp, fat stripes of blue. The first time he tipped his wig off, the bright yellow hair sliding off like a greased animal, I nearly recoiled. It was grotesque. The polished, icing-like façade of the man seemed naked without that coiffed mop of hair- barbarically naked, straightforward and far more brutal. His smile seemed different- slightly enraged, any breath forced through the carnal slits of his teeth.

It was an almost frightening sight, really. Most especially bearing down on you from above- it was something out of a masochist's fondest dream, that trembling, unspoken promise of pain.

Yet still his confidence simmered, and my interest in Mizo remained fully intact. I was not to be put off by an unsightly appearance. Becoming involved with him would lead… to better things. We all know the ploy- becoming your boss's play toy at night. But for all its triteness, I have found no more effective a way to mow down competition without touching them. I prefer not to get my hands dirty with such tasks, and so I continue to dote on my dear, kind Mizo.

Soon I was settled down permanently with my own illustrious crime lord. Mizo and I make quite a cut and quite a living.

It has been this way for years now- Mizo carefully controlling the city's crime-scene as the family's head rep, meanwhile puppetting his own career along as the ranting, riling Blitz. He is intelligent, I will grant him that. It is something I admire in him, though his list of desirable traits is being quickly burned alive with every passing moment.

Again, we are odd together, but it was advantageous for both of us.

At a stretch, I picture myself as… the brooding, somewhat aloof wife of a manic businessman. I believe we all know the type. A quiet, catty creature with an undue fondness for smoking and drinking. Red dress as a must, of course. Tastefully pressed.

Dark house, no children. Simply two intolerable people coexisting.

Her husband, an intense wreck of a man and more unmindful of her than most, is not so much an object of affection as an object of contemplation. His moods, whims, do not matter. She humors them when she must, to keep up appearances, but otherwise… nh. She has other plans- other men to see, perhaps.

Such as that delicious new boy on the scene- the leader of that humdrum assembly- the Sicks. Yes, Jak is his name. An odd name for an odd fellow, and one that presents many opportunities. I cannot help but fear for the future of our relationship, seeing as I have a shamefully competitive streak and have been, in fact, ordered to murder him on the off chance I find him in an alleyway… but still, one night would not be much to regret.

I would adore grappling him down into my own apartment, regardless of protest. A little restraint always adds interest- I have done it before, seizing Mizo's bed as my own for my little escapades. Simple lust is no stranger to me, and carnal force no more distant.

He's such a pretty boy. Blue eyes entranced me in the days of old- in Mizo, they repel me. And yet I remain.

Yes, regardless of other flames, the wife remains with her ill-tempered husband and sates him in all she can. Without experiencing any personal inconvenience, of course. Having a sizable stake in his business, on which she depends for her current comfort, she humors him. He does not mind her detachment. She does not acknowledge the fact she should feel otherwise. He is a tool, she is a tool, and, pointedly separated, they do not care.

A public couple, in a sense.

I am his second in command, the captain of the crime family. Entrusted, yet mistrusted completely. With all our history, one must wonder when that inherent paranoia of his will come to a head.

I cocked the gun one last time. It clicked, and something within me did the same- something which prepared me to turn around, place the barrel to his temple and squeeze.

Ending him.

"Well, well, well. What do you have there, Razor?"

I froze. The deathly silent room seemed stark and threatening, swelling around me.

His voice was entirely clear- clean and measured. He'd been awake for some time.

Perhaps I shouldn't have asked.

Looking around, each inch taken as though on a creaking floorboard, I found a crumpled, neon-stained mess of sheets around his hips and his pale body reclining against the headboard. He was smiling, but it dug deeply into his cheeks as though it had been carved there- thin and displeased. He had seen the gun.

"Do you want to share, or is it a surprise?" That maniacal, calm voice pried at me, causing the first, wary flinch.

Numbly, I tucked the offending evidence behind my back. In the same motion, he leveled a far thicker gun directly between my eyes.

Damn. I swallowed hastily.

Another slow, considering moment and he shifted- throwing one leg over the edge of the bed, then the other, but keeping the barrel cited cleanly between my eyes. He walked around the bed, every single motion loose as though his arm was not raised and cocked, but instead swinging at his side.

"There's one thing I just don't get." He enunciated every word as though it were the mystery of the universe, gesturing smoothly with his large hands.

Damn my introspective nature. A marvelous way to end all this.

He drew up next to me and looked me hard in the eye, cocking his head. My lip curled instantly as he pressed closer, as though searching intently for something in my expression. All pretense, all show.

"What _is_ it with you self-promoting types?" He demanded, frowning genially. "An hour in front of the mirror every morning and you don't even know what you have. It's always more, more, more! And I've tried to give you everything I could- you can ask my pocketbook, it wasn't me who wanted the new sheets."

Guilt as he may, the sheets were one facet of our relationship I did not regret. They were quite luxurious, and now I felt some hazy, distant relief that I would not be hounded by my own mind for spoiling them.

He shook me, as though quite aware I wasn't paying him due attention.

"I let you into my home, Razer. My pad, my hideaway! That's, ah, that's top secret, that is!" He said laughingly, chiding me. Incredible, how he can insert a toothy laugh into every syllable. "It took a good bit of time for me to… mull it over, weigh the scales. See if you were worth it."

His mouth was particularly close to my ear, evoking a morose twitch, and a slight threat lurked in his words- this conversation was not new to me.

"Turned out well for you, didn't it? Lucky devil." He whispered, measured but intense. Worming his way into my cold exterior, I supposed. "Green light, checkers under tire and free room and board. You've got the literal pent house suite here, Razer, and what do you have to show for it? Cloaks and daggers for the one guy who gave a damn."

Always in need of that finalizing line, he attacked. I breathed in sharply as the gun made contact with my head, Mizo's fleshy hands jabbing it against my temple- I twisted and his thick arm encircled my neck, hooking backwards against my windpipe. The air left me in one fell stroke, and I fell tensely against him, my gun striking my knees and clattering to the floor as his heavy, musty breath beat out against my neck.

"If I trust you with my address, I trust you know I'm not an idiot." He snarled, savagely twisting the gun. "I wouldn't suggest entertaining any more ideas of whipping my empire off its heels. For the sake of all this, I wouldn't begrudge putting my best racer off the track."

Caught at my own game, half-propped against the man who held my life and reputation, I knew when to stay silent.

His forwardness never shocked me.

There were no misunderstandings between us. No need to cushion any rough messages, as there were no tender feelings to be wary of. There were simply facts, rules and ways to abide them.

I said nothing, for I had nothing to say. His body ached to force a response out of me, but his mind was well accustomed to my prudent silence.

"No comment?" He murmured dangerously, when nothing but our breaths had filled the room for minutes. "Well, looks like we're speaking the same language again."

He released me, haltingly letting his arm slide from my neck as though it had stuck there. I rubbed my throat, glaring coldly ahead- his eyes glowed, picking me over, lips cockeyed as he breathed. He turned and kicked my forgotten gun to the other side of the room, tossing his to join it.

I did not look at him as he closed the distance between us, hand flattening to my back in a hard, jarring push.

"Good thing, too." He said silkily, eyes lidded. "Anything more from your scheming little mouth and you would've been in serious trouble, Razor."

When I failed to stir upon this obvious assertion of dominance, I could feel his lip stiffen in manic contempt. He gave me another prod in the back, large hand jabbing warningly.

"Back to bed, winner." He hissed.

I walked stiffly back to bed, ignoring his childish tone. When I had reached the edge of it, he suddenly rose on me in a quick, indecisive stroke.

He fairly backhanded me, manhandling me over the bed and jerking my legs apart as though fighting with a stubborn armchair that refused to unfold. I huffed at the contact rather than the surprise, making no attempt to get up as his meaty fists stuffed themselves between my waist and the bed, jerking at my robe.

"Just don't see why you keep on with your fancy little robes…" He muttered through his smiling mouth, tearing my clothes off abruptly and working them down my wide hips.

I knew how this was to proceed, and didn't _steel_ myself for it, but rather... accepted it. Romance was never our story- I don't believe we've kissed since last year.

My lip hiked up as he fumbled with me, hating his halting progress. If he had to ravish me and be completely hideous at the same time, couldn't he at least do it properly?

"Unlike yourself, I don't appreciate being nude while out and about." I offered tensely, jaw clamping shut. At another unmindful tug from Mizo, my mouth thinned distastefully, and I spoke out through my teeth. "Somehow I don't feel quite… safe."

I grunted as he jerked savagely at my shoulders, his mouth next to my ear again.

"Ahah." A light chuckle, intended to stab. "Did I catch a little irony there, buster? I think I did."

My robe was shucked off by then, a flustered mass of silk on the floor. I detest feeling exposed, and my parted legs and angled ankles were enough to make me feel like a whore ordered to pose for pictures before being fucked.

He fussed with things. I heard the cap pop off, the methodical shucking sound as he greased his hands up. I waited, resisting the urge to prop my chin up on a fist and roll my eyes.

He chattered on, talking through that ridiculously huge smile. I could practically hear the veins in his neck straining outwards like thick ropes.

"I _would_ take your shot at murdering me in my sleep a little more personally, but hey. I consider it practice." He said cheerily, his footsteps dull as he padded over to me. "Gang-lords aren't the most popular people in the world, despite our, ah, sparkling personalities. We have to be ready for that special time, when the head of a very successful crime family meets a man worthy of heading him up, takes him into his home and he turns out to be a self-serving turncoat like your beautiful self!"

He manually seized my legs, jerking them farther apart still.

Lord above, how I detested being lectured during sex. Still, there was nothing more for me to do than keep my silence, and I shifted restlessly because of that fact.

His commanding hands squeezed my hips, and I forced myself still once more. Though something I always seek in a man, his gritty habit of pinching me with those large hands had made his advances downright repulsive. Something so graceless always nauseates me- the man practically humps when impassioned, which is something I narrowly abide.

He loomed up behind me, a steaming source of heat and pressure at my back- one hand snaked up my vulnerable stomach and clutched my side.

"And besides, we're all friends here." He whispered.

I choked, pressing my hand to my lips as he skillfully forced himself in, the instant, thick invasion sending a shudder of impersonal pleasure through my knees, which buckled against the mattress.

That idiot. That fucking brutal, damnable man.

"Nothing is going to take this empire from me. Nothing."

My eyes fluttered shut as his thick fingers roamed restlessly on my chest, all from anxiousness rather than a need to please me.

"You'd best learn that, Razer." He hissed, slipping out and pounding in with one fell jerk, taut stomach straining at my backside. " I'm your boss."

He said it like a religious fanatic spat the word GOD.

I managed to irk out a sound- the bastard was thoroughly crushing my prostrate and sending tense shivers up my spine. I clawed at the sheets, the mattress angling into my thighs. I moaned, chin dipping down as I pushed against him, lost in the basic sensation of fucking in our constantly shifting, neon-stained room. He was thick within me, thrusting mercilessly, and I strained back, struggling up from the bed cast in that dead, haunting blue of night.

"Say it." He rasped suddenly, forcibly holding me still. The heat and passion drained almost instantly, the fact of my prone body recurring with double displeasure. I bristled.

"What?" I slurred testily, dragged up from my thin conception of pleasure by some idiotic complex of his.

"I am in charge." He breathed, driving each word into my hateful ears. "I have the power, I _rule_ you and this miserable city."

"Shiest!" I cursed as a hand gripped tightly through my hair, neck creaking as Mizo jerked it back. Colors flitted behind my eyes, blood rising through my taut neck and set jaw.

"Yes, _yes_! You win, I'm yours!" I growled, heart rate spiking as the ceiling swam.

His thick fist gave a blind, infuriated jerk of warning, and I forced anything more out through my teeth.

"Kras is yours, you idiot!"

He didn't suffice to let my head fall limply. Perhaps it was for my slight error in insulting him, but he shoved it down in a merciless jab of his palm, never pausing a moment but slamming into me in a wet slap of skin. My neck throbbed. I grimaced, wondering at my ability to disregard annoying interruptions such as physical assault as I came a bare three seconds later, grunting thickly. A thin glaze of white searing my vision, I spattered those wonderful sheets and cursed inwardly.

His power trips would be the death of me one day.

He lay atop me, heavy and limp. All the sensitive areas had gone dead, leaving a disgusting, lukewarm presence still jabbed within me, without meaning- connected to a heaving, sweating idiot. I shuddered, suddenly feeling defiled. But it was a routine emotion and one easily pushed aside.

Within moments he would pull away, tug on a shirt and leave me to myself on the bed, all distinctly without ceremony. I would attempt to rub myself clean on the sheets, growing irritated before retreating to my corner of the bed. I would ignore him when he returned from contacting some random thug, chastising them needlessly and nervously to pay better attention on patrol or some such hand-wringing, space-filling nonsense.

He would lay down, the mattress would swing and creak throatily- his frown audible.

I would put myself at ease with a few apathetic views of my current situation, weigh the situation once more, find it to my liking and promise myself some delightful other catch to enjoy myself with, roll over, and go to sleep.

After all, this isn't the first time this has happened. Nor will it be the last.

Mizo will die, and I care not who does it. But if someone does not step up to the plate, I will finish him myself.

Tomorrow is a new day.

-.-.-.-

Okay. I fibbed. Technically I wasn't supposed to include the smut. But it was far more about characterization and tension than 'WAH HAWTNESS', so I feel justified. The piece seemed empty and rushed without it. OH YAH AND THEY CUDDLED LIKE BUNNIES WHILE MIZO SCREAMED HIS HEAD OFF AND BITCHSMECKED RAZOR.

Yeahuhhuhright.

Hope my interpretation produced a spark of some kind! …God, I adore Razor. ADORE HIM.

AND THE BEDSHEETS. XD Hurhurhur.


End file.
